Stalemate
by Spirit of Asimov
Summary: The British military think they have finally figured out how to use robots in combat, and have Russia in their sights.


**Stalemate**

 **A story set in the _I_ , _Robot_ universe, incorporating the Three Laws of Robotics. **

**1**

As Prime Minister, Samantha Hague made it her practice never to arrive early to a meeting. Her reputation for bull-by-the-horns decisiveness owed as much to her bursting into packed meeting rooms, forcing up her jacket sleeves and demanding, "Let's get started, shall we?" as it did to authentic decision making.

She rarely held meetings in her own office for this very reason, as it was impractical to keep away from one's own office for the purpose of a dramatic entry. She was therefore caught off guard when she received a call from her secretary to inform her that Field Marshall Gladstone was already in transit and required an urgent meeting with the PM. Gladstone was bringing information concerning an immediate threat to national security. In the circumstances, Hague could hardly refuse the meeting, or even propose an alternative venue, so she conceded to wait for Gladstone in her office. She studied the clock on the wall intently and plotted how she might discipline Gladstone in the future for the brazenness of his approach.

Gladstone arrived presently in a bluster of breathlessness and perspiration. His thick moustache bristled wildly at the edges and a thick vein pulsated on his temple in a spongy sideshow that Hague could not bear to look at yet could not avert her eyes from. He gripped the handle of a large, metal case in his plum purple fist.

"I assume you do not bring good tidings," said Hague, leaning forwards determinedly with her palms spread on the desk in a heavily-contrived stance of war.

"It didn't work," blurted Field Marshall Gladstone. "The robot offensive was a failure."

Hague exhaled a long, calming breath. She pushed herself upright and walked around the desk, circling the army man, studying him from every angle. Gladstone stood stock still, eyes fixed, as Hague prowled like a lioness. He wasn't to know, but she was playing for time. This was the worst possible news she could receive, and she was unprepared for it, primarily because she had been assured it could never happen. It was impossible. The offensive was a sure thing. It would guarantee multiple re-elections with little or no loss of life to British forces.

Sixteen hours ago, 600 upgraded CRX-19 units had trundled across the Latvian border into Russia, heading directly for Moscow. The CRX-19 was a gargantuan machine developed for demolition, and through inventive use of command, the robots would clear a path to the Russian capital for the troops and tanks to follow. It was supposed to be the quickest offensive in history, which in truth, was all Britain could afford. In a matter of hours, Hague was supposed to succeed where others had famously failed. The plan was so simple, and so revolutionary, that it could not fail. Just as the Titanic could not sink.

What Hague had on her hands now was an outright declaration of war. She did not know what to do, and so would find a way to draw the answer from the military man in front of her, whilst simultaneously convincing him that she was in command of the operation. She strode calmly back to her desk and sat down, holding Gladstone in position.

"So, what happened?" she said, resting her chin on the back of her hands to show she was listening, and not really imagining the squadrons of Russian planes which would eventually be heading their way.

"The machines stopped on route," said Gladstone. "They got as far as Shabrovka, about 250 kilometres in. Our satellites show that we'd caught the Russians napping. At the pace we were going, we'd have had our feet well and truly under the table with the kettle on by the time the nearest reinforcements could've arrived. Our troops were walking through an open door.

"And the machines just stopped?" said Hague.

"That is correct," replied Gladstone.

"And our troops?"

"Stranded in Shabrovka. They're about half way to the capital, immediately behind the CRX-19s. The robots are large enough to create a temporary shield, but as time passes, their situation becomes more perilous."

"Well pull them out of there!" snapped Hague. Field Marshal Gladstone shook his head solemnly.

"Negative, Prime Minister. The Russians are mobilising as we speak. If we retreat now, they will wipe us off the map. Our only chance is to take Moscow and take out the command. In that sense, nothing has changed. Only by flattening the capital can we disrupt the flow of orders and win the war."

"A war you started!" shouted Hague, pointing a thin finger at Gladstone's chest.

"Prime Minister, with due respect, I think we need to focus on the problem at hand. We have to get those CRX-19 units operational or our forces will be destroyed. Then we would expect a full-scale retaliation from the Russians."

"Get me the specialist, now!" she ordered.

"He's on his way, Prime Minister," said Field Marshal Gladstone. Hague slumped down into her chair and exhaled loudly. Gladstone was right – action now, recriminations later.

Waiting for the robotics specialist was an uncomfortable experience. In truth, Hague knew that Britain's air and sea defences would hold up against the Russians until the Americans pitched in – assuming they would. The troops stranded in Shabrovka were the real concern, and they still had a few hours before they would take any fire. The Russians had got themselves mixed up in so many proxy wars that there was barely a soldier left to defend the home soil. All of them would need to be recalled and that would take time, which was precisely why Gladstone had proposed this as an optimum moment to take out Popov's wicked mafia regime once and for all.

Hague conceded to offer Field Marshal Gladstone a seat. He placed his case down on the carpet and lowered his heavy body into the chair with a groan. He had been a fine specimen in his prime, but now he was stiff from battle scars and swollen from fine dining.

The shrill cry of the phone interrupted the silence and Hague's secretary announced that Dr. Anil Shah, professor of robotics, had arrived by helicopter from Cambridge. Hague only knew him from television, and it was a much shorter man than she'd imagined who walked through her door wearing a brilliantly white lab coat. He was a tiny man with a pencil beard, obsessively trimmed into razor-straight edges. His features were overly angular and his deep brown eyes sparkled behind designer spectacles. He seemed to think himself very special indeed.

"Take a seat, Dr. Shar," ordered Hague. She formed an instant impression of the scientist and didn't want him thinking he could manipulate her on account of her womanhood. Dr. Shar climbed uneasily into the seat which was slightly too high for him.

"Tell me about the CRX-19s," commanded Hague. Dr. Shar shuffled in his seat and adjusted his glasses in preparation. He was accustomed to an audience already enthralled by his fame and reputation.

"It's a clearance droid," he said. "Each unit is seven metres square and runs on all-terrain caterpillar tracks. It was designed for urban renewal. It ploughs through anything in its path, breaking down buildings with a series of hydraulic grinders. It spits the chunks out behind it for another CRX-19 to scoop them up and grind them down again into fine gravel. We refer to them as C-Rex," he added, with a chuckle. His wit had always gone down a storm with television audiences and enraptured undergraduates. Hague's cold stare brought him back down to Earth.

"Like the dinosaur," he tried, unsuccessfully. Beads of perspiration formed beneath his spectacles.

"Very droll. Perhaps you could continue, Dr. Shar."

"Well, it's no secret that the military has always wanted to weaponise robots, but of course, the three laws prevented it. As you know, the first law states that: _a robot may not injure a human being or_ , _through inaction_ , _allow a human being to come to harm_ , which makes them pretty useless as soldiers. However, we've always speculated what other roles a robot could fill without engaging in actual combat."

"So, repurposing these clearance robots for invasion was your idea, was it?" snarled Hague.

"Not exactly," said Shar, shuffling uncomfortably.

"I led him to it," interjected Gladstone. "I wanted to find a way to move land troops quickly across long distances. These monsters could run a highway through the Amazon. They were practically _begging_ to be used this way."

"And yet they've stopped," said Hague. Gladstone and Shah cast nervous glances at one another.

"It's not a technical malfunction," Shar assured her. "These machines are nuclear. They will run for decades with very little maintenance, and ours are less than twenty years old.

"The problem is inevitably connected to the three laws. The C-Rex must have decided that to continue towards Moscow poses a threat of harm to humans."

"They must've figured out it's an invasion!" snapped Hague, turning on the military man. "What did you tell them, Gladstone? You told me the commands were perfectly tailored to accommodate the three laws!"

"I didn't deliver the instructions personally, Prime Minister. That was carried out by the generals on the ground. We told them where we were going and we assured them that the route we were taking would cause no harm to humans. The C-Rex are fitted with heat-seeking technology as standard to ensure no living creature gets mangled in the grinders."

"That's true," nodded Shah enthusiastically. "They might have stumbled upon a habitation of some sort, and can't carry on until it's cleared."

"Negative," said Gladstone. "We already sent a recon team to check it out. Fields and trees – but no people."

"What about radiation, or chemicals?" asked the Prime Minister. "It could be a waste dump or a stash of chemical weapons."

"Very good," said Dr. Shah, with a patronising nod. "The C-Rex would not knowingly lead our troops into a toxic environment – they have sensors for that very purpose, but if they detected airborne toxins then they would automatically start to backtrack. They haven't done that, so we can assume the air is clear."

"Can somebody _talk_ to them, for God's sake?" asked Hague, snapping a pencil she was unaware of having snatched off the desk. Field Marshal Gladstone leaned over the arm of his chair and proceeded to unfasten the buckles of the large, metal case on the floor.

"This is a communication unit," he grunted, straining with the exertion. The front of the case fell open to reveal a visiplate and dialing pad.

"Allow me," said Dr. Shar, leaping from his chair and helping Gladstone to lift the unit onto Hague's desk. Gladstone hesitated over the dialing pad.

"Permission to call the front line?" he asked.

"Get on with it!" snapped Hague, exasperated. Gladstone jabbed in a sequence with a pudgy finger and the three people gathered in closely to await the answer, which took an eternity.

Finally, a dot appeared on the screen and expanded to reveal a set a stern, pock-marked features. The face showed no discernible emotion, and Hague thought him precisely the kind of person she could trust in a crisis.

"General King, this is Gladstone. I'll calling from the office of the Prime Minister."

"Good afternoon, Field Marshall Gladstone. It's a pleasure to meet you, Prime Minister." His voice was deep and calm. Hague nodded curtly towards the screen. She liked King already, but there was no sense in letting him know that.

"This is Dr. Shah," said Gladstone. "I'm going to pass you over to him now, and you are to follow his instructions to the letter. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir," said King.

"Alright then," said Gladstone, returning to the safety of his seat. He could no longer see the visiplate, and was content just to listen in, having passed the pressure of command to somebody else. Dr. Shah adjusted his glasses once more and squinted at the screen.

"General King, I need you to approach the CRX-19 unit at the very front of the group. Then I need you to repeat my questions exactly as I say them to you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," said King. He stepped back from the camera and his full, impressive form came into view. He turned with a brisk movement and jogged towards the wall of CRX-19s which obscured the view of the countryside beyond. Another soldier hurried along after him, inexpertly filming the General as he approached the frontmost machine. Hague gasped at the size of it. For a moment she almost forgot that the robot was malfunctioning. It was so impressive, and so dauntingly brutalist, that it would have struck fear into any opposing army. The plan might have been unravelling at the seams, but Hague could now see why it had been so appealing to Gladstone.

Months of delicate diplomacy had been needed to secure the urban renewal contracts in Latvia. It was handy that that Latvians were determined to eradicate their Soviet heritage, but there was no shortage of nearer neighbours who were desperate to sign the deal. Plus, they'd needed to ship the machines to Sweden, drive them across the country, avoiding all populated areas, and then ship them again across the Baltic Sea. The audacity of it was mind-blowing, and Hague and been riding the crest of the wave ever since. Knocking out Popov would carve her name into the history books as one of the very greatest, and she glared at the visiplate with renewed steel. What happened now would determine glory or ruin. She only wished that her fate did not rest in the oily palms of Dr. Anil Shar.

General King lowered a small hatch which was positioned at head height on the back of the machine, revealing a microphone and speaker.

"Awaiting command, Sir," said King stiffly. Shar, savouring the moment, lowered his voice to a deeper, more impressive pitch.

"Ask it why it stopped," he said. Out in the field, King pressed the red communication button next to the microphone.

"CRX-19. Why have you stopped?" he said. There was a pause. The C-Rex had tuned its power output to a slumber. The voice that eventually answered was tinny and cracked. It was a beast of a machine, not programmed for articulate communication.

"To continue on our present path would likely cause a loss of human life," said the machine.

"They know!" gasped Hague. Shar leaned forward. An idea twitched at the corner of his mouth.

"Ask it whose life is at risk," he said.

"Whose life is at risk?" repeated King.

"The lives of you and your troops," replied the machine. King's concrete demeanour wavered for a fraction of a second. Like everybody else, he had thought it was the possibility of _Russian_ casualties they were hiding from the machines.

"We are not at risk, so long as you continue forward. And anyway, we accept any risk. I command you to continue," boomed King.

"Negative," sputtered the reply. In London, Shar leaped wildly from his seat.

"Please, General King! Only repeat my commands! If you force it into a dilemma, it could break down completely!"

"I apologise, Sir," said King, taking a step away from the communicator and bowing his head in repentance.

"What's the matter?" whispered Hague.

"The second law is: _a robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law_. The first law takes precedent, so the robots will ignore a command which poses a threat to humans, but if the general forces the second law too hard, the robots will be caught in a paradox and the indecision will simply overload them." Hague nodded silently. Best to let Shar handle this.

"Ask it to clarify the danger," he panted. King cleared his throat and pressed the communication button once more.

"CRX-19, please clarify the danger to my troops."

"There are soldiers and weaponry stationed two kilometres ahead on our current trajectory," said the machine. "They appear poised for attack. They outnumber your troops three to one and are positioned advantageously."

"What?" snapped King.

"Oh my God," gasped Hague.

Field Marshal Gladstone burst into a coughing fit which wrenched him clean out of his chair.

Shar hung over the visiplate, unsure of what to do. Hague reached over and cut the connection.

"Gladstone, call it in. Get satellite confirmation," ordered Hague.

"Actually, Prime Minister, in this situation it should be _me_ who gives…"

"Now!" screamed Hague, draining the blood from Gladstone's face.

"Well, quite so. I was going to do that, of my own volition," he mumbled, although the words got caught up in his moustache and barely made it out.

Within minutes he was hanging up the phone. His expression was one of a man who had lost any appetite for challenge and complication. He was due to retire and was all set to do so as a conquering hero. But he had taken his foot off the pedal just a fraction too soon.

"It's true," he said. "The Russians are lying in wait to ambush our troops. They knew. I don't know how, but they knew."

Hague shook her head in disgust.

"The Latvians," she said. "They're in on it."

"Moscow probably pressured them into it," said Gladstone.

"Regardless, we've been played," said Hague. She pushed her fingertips into her forehead, teasing the skin to breaking point with her fingernails.

"Those bastards!" bellowed Gladstone.

"All's fair in love and war," sighed Hague. She stood up for no particular reason and then fell back down onto the chair. "It was always too good to be true. It could never be that easy. We're screwed."

"Now, really, Prime Minister!" blustered Gladstone. "We can't give up now. Our troops are stuck out there! Just as soon as the Russians discover we've stopped the advance, they'll charge us down!"

"What do you suggest?" asked Hague.

"I cannot see any way out of this without combat," said Gladstone. In his eyes, an almost-forgotten flame of passion flickered back into life. This was his calling.

"We double down. There is no escape. We need to get those robots rolling and we need to face the Russians head-on." He turned to the scientist, who was doing his best to camouflage with his chair.

"You! Make it happen!" he roared, jabbing a purple digit in the direction of the terrified scientist. Shar fumbled with the buttons of his lab coat and sweated heavily about his neck and ears.

"Um, the C-Rex won't lead our troops into the trap. We need to nullify the danger. You could order an airstrike, maybe?"

"Impossible," snorted Gladstone. "Stick to robotics."

"Well then perhaps we could find some new threat that would spur the C-Rex into action."

"A bigger threat than a horde of heavily-armed Russian soldiers?" said Gladstone.

"Well, actually, that could work."

"What are you talking about, man?" shouted Gladstone.

"Well," started Shar. "We can't approach the Russians because the robots won't move. But, if the Russians attack _us_ , then the C-Rex should come to our defence."

"What are you suggesting?" asked Hague, already dreading what the scientist might say.

"We do nothing," said Shar. "If the Russians attack us, the robots will have to make a choice. They can't just stand by and watch us get slaughtered. But they won't want to harm the Russians either. This is where it gets a little complicated.

"The C-Rex will have to decide which humans it can protect, and how they might non-fatally stop any aggressors. There is a chance they might side with the Russians because there are more of them. The loss of our soldiers would be smaller than the loss of the Russians, making it the lesser of two evils in the positronic brain."

"But they might defend us?" asked Hague, clawing at even the finest threads of hope and redemption.

"I think there is a greater chance of that if we are unarmed," said Shar.

"What?" barked Gladstone. "Tell our boys and girls to lay down their weapons? Preposterous! How dare you?" Shar drew a silk handkerchief from his pocket and hurriedly dried his face and neck with it.

"Excuse me, Sir, but it's out best hope," he said. "The C-Rex would be forced to weigh up the situation. In a battle between two forces, both armed and fighting to the death, it would side with the biggest army, which is the Russians. If our troops were sitting ducks, then it would no longer be a battle, it would be a massacre. A robot will not stand idle and allow that. At the very least, it would try and get our soldiers out of there."

"Which I've already told you isn't an option," said Gladstone. "If we run, they'll chase us, and now we have every reason to believe the Latvians will have closed the door behind us. We have to fight."

"Then we risk handing the C-Rex over to the enemy," said Shar, folding his arms defiantly.

Gladstone turned on Hague. "Prime Minister, surely you can see this is lunacy?" he pleaded.

"What, in this whole situation, is _not_ lunacy, Field Marshal Gladstone?" she replied. "You had a plan, and that plan has backfired spectacularly. Now, _without_ a plan, you want to start a fight we cannot possibly win, ignoring the advice of the only person in the room who really understands how these machines think."

"Prime Minister, please…" Gladstone began, but Hague pushed the communication unit towards him and nodded curtly.

"Dial," she said.

"Prime Minister…" implored Gladstone.

"Or I'll see you tried for treason," said Hague. Gladstone delayed for a moment as the words seeped in. She meant it. He dialled the number in a flurry and cleared his throat once, then twice. The unsmiling face of General King returned.

"We await your orders, Sir," he said.

Field Marshal Gladstone cleared his throat a third time.

"Your orders are as follows," he began.

 **2**

The debriefing took place in a secure military facility in the countryside outside London. As such, Prime Minister Samantha Hague could easily arrange to be the last to arrive, and whilst she did her utmost to recreate the formidable figure of old, she was physically and mentally exhausted from the entire ordeal and her performance lacked heart.

All night, she had watched as a young soldier sat astride one of the giant C-Rex units with the communication unit in hand, transmitting the scene back to London.

The Russians came down in force. The British troops stood in file behind the barrier of robots, far enough away from their own guns and tanks that there could be no confusion regarding their unarmed status. If the machines failed to save them, then perhaps humanitarian law would.

The video feed trembled with the thunderous arrival of the tanks and troops. They rolled in arrogantly and stopped within firing range. The obvious threat triggered the C-Rex to close ranks. They creaked into action and pressed against each other to form a tight square, shielding the British troops within.

The order to fire came quickly. Three shells were fired simultaneously from three separate tanks, aimed high to clear the barrier of robots. The British soldiers did not move from their position, standing in formation as fiery death arched up into the sky ahead of them. One or two closed their eyes, and several more prayed silently, some for the first time. They braced for impact. There was no way to escape now even if they chose to. Better to take a quick death. It was sure to amount to a war crime, and somebody somewhere would surely pay the price, but that is scant conciliation for a life cut short. Most of the soldiers remained stationary simply because no other course of action was available, and as such, they quickly made peace with the situation.

The shells hung menacingly at the zenith, and then they began to drop. A good proportion of the soldiers would be obliterated with these first three shells, trapped as they were in a tight pen. Back in London, Hague watched the screen, unblinking. The soldier held the camera steady, demonstrating uncommon bravery in the line of fire. All that remained was the impact. Hague waited for the light, the noise, the chaos. She waited for the video feed to cut out.

But it didn't happen. The link stayed live. The bombs never landed. Three C-Rex at the front of the pack rose up into the sky on hydraulic cylinders. The bodies of the C-Rex took the blows, without so much as a scratch. They reacted with the speed and precision of much smaller, newer robots, pushed beyond previous parameters by the power of the first law.

With the shells taken care of, the same three C-Rex dropped back down onto their caterpillar tracks and broke rank, rumbling towards the Russian tanks. Their demolition grinders crunched into action and built to a ferocious roar. They were used to eating skyscrapers, and could chew up a tank in seconds.

"It's working!" cried Field Marshal Gladstone, throttling Dr. Shar in the excitement. "They're attacking the Russians for us!"

"Don't be so sure," said Shar, shaking himself free from Haver's embrace. "They won't kill if they don't have to."

He was right. The C-Rex descended on the tanks, and each one pulled it in by the gun, sucking the tanks towards the grinders, up to the turrets. Having disabled the weapons, the C-Rex reversed their grinders and spat the tanks back out, with the soldiers still safely inside. Each C-Rex returned to its place in the blockade and awaited the next offensive.

Seven shells this time, from seven different tanks, all fired within seconds of each other. Again, the bombs shot upwards and arched over, and again the C-Rex rose to block them, before rolling out of line to tear up the offending guns.

Now the ground forces fired their machine guns at the robots, but the bullets pinged playfully off the bodies like raindrops. More shells were fired, seemingly with the intention of overwhelming the C-Rex with numbers, but the C-Rex rose to the challenge, neutralising two or three shells at a time, and then recording which tanks to go after, building up a grudge list it would not forget until each tank was defanged.

Some tanks tried to flee, but if a C-Rex caught it from behind, it rolled its tracks over the top of the tank, squashing it beyond function, just not quite enough to crush the people within.

When a C-Rex broke rank, another quickly filled its place in the line to protect the unarmed British. In a perfectly synchronised ballet, the C-Rex caught the shells, repelled the bullets, mangled the tanks and circled around the perimeter to ensure nothing got through. And nothing did.

The soldiers on the ground had a limited view of what was happening, but the observers in London had premium seats. The blistering sounds of bombs, bullets and grinding gears, formed an unforgettable extravaganza, and when it became clear that the British could hold out this way indefinitely, they actually began to enjoy the show. Gladstone whooped as each Russian tank was destroyed, and Hague allowed him to. The Russian tanks were depleted to practically nil by the time the order was given to cease fire. Smoke rose and cleared. The British troops stood nervously and listened to the ensuing silence. The Russian soldiers lowered their guns in disbelief. There was no way through. Everybody stood around cluelessly, in an embarrassing status quo.

All of the C-Rex returned to their formation. Smoke drifted harmlessly and the engines retuned to a low hum. Those few Russian tanks which had not fired were free to turn and drive away. The foot soldiers impatiently awaited the order to retreat, and when it finally came through, broke away at full sprint.

Whispers spread amongst the British, and until Field Marshall Gladstone could get General King on the line, not one of them knew exactly what they had been involved in. They knew only that they had been ordered to surrender their weapons, had been attacked, and yet had somehow survived.

It was a battle without casualty. Not a single soldier was lost from either side. The British were allowed to retreat. Hague didn't wait for permission to enter Latvia. She ordered the soldiers to march clean through. She knew there was nothing the Latvians could do to stop her.

Information about the battle was stifled. Hague did not want to be connected to the failed offensive, and Popov did not want the world to know that his troops were beaten into submission by pacifist demolition robots. It was a tie, but there were lessons to be learned on both sides.

Now that Hague and Gladstone had rolled the dice with robots on the battle field, their tantalising potential had been revealed at last. The strength of the first law guaranteed troop safety in the correct conditions.

Field Marshall Gladstone wrapped up his address in spirited fashion. He had put off his retirement to pursue the exhilarating new opportunities. The official personnel in the room muttered along enthusiastically. It was only poor Dr. Shar who voiced his concern. There were too many variables, he argued, too many situations in which tragic irregularities could occur. What if the opposing army dropped their weapons at a key moment? Or what if in the process of killing the opposition, our forces then outnumbered the enemy, and became the greater threat in the minds of our own robots? Thousands of real-world trials would be needed, and each trial could cost human life.

His impassioned pleas were based on an academic understanding of robotics, but they were lost entirely on the electioneers and warmongers in attendance. A new and glorious military future was looming on the horizon, and they were not about to let the chance slip through their fingers.


End file.
